


within you

by Aquaphobe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Manipulation, Familiars, Horcruxes, M/M, Mind Games, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Obscurial Harry Potter, Possessive Tom Riddle, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquaphobe/pseuds/Aquaphobe
Summary: At the age of six, Harry Potter saves an injured snake.The ramifications of this one, selfless act change his life forever - and not for the better.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 32
Kudos: 215





	1. a bad day

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this as a self-indulgent drabble years ago, and... well, i needed to blow off some steam in between working on my masters deadlines, so i figured, 'hey, why not?' who doesn't love a lil bit of counterproductive procrastination, am i right?
> 
> in all seriousness though, this may or may not be something i pick up and make into a longer fic, depending on muse and reader response.
> 
> (title from David Bowie's _Within You_ )

**2** **nd** **January 1987**

Stale ash and cigarette butts are better than the musty scent of rotting cabbage and cat urine that oozes from the walls of Mrs Figg's house. That much is undeniable, Harry thinks as he sits on the pavement outside of the batty old woman's home, toeing the crumpled filters in the gutter at the side of the road. He's tucked himself down behind the overgrown bushes that dominate the entirety of her front garden, meaning he can't be seen from her windows, even if she looks down from the top floor of her house.

He'd rather be out here in the miserable January cold, hunched over his knobbly knees and trying his very best to plug the ends of his gaping sleeves up with small hands, than inside, warm and well-fed on week-old turkey sandwiches. The only reason he isn't yet is because Aunt Petunia was in such a rush to take Dudley for an emergency visit to the hospital (after he stuffed himself sick on Christmas cake, plum pudding and two boxes of shortbread), that she practically kicked him out of the car on the way out of their estate as an afterthought and hadn't bothered sticking around to see her nephew inside.

(' _No one would want a little freak like that cluttering up A &E_,' he can just imagine Uncle Vernon saying, mustache quivering and face puce. ' _Bad enough we have to look at him, no need to parade him around and about in public too, Petunia. He's better off out of sight.'_ )

Harry doesn't even know if Mrs Figg is home – only knows that he doesn't particularly care to find out. He hopes that in her desperation to get her 'poor, precious Dudders' to the doctors, Aunt Petunia dropped Harry off without any forethought or care for contacting the weird old lady.

Even if he freezes to death before he's collected (which might not be until much later tonight), the six-year-old boy is quite certain that he doesn't mind. He's got a sniffle and he's starting to worry that his nose and ears might fall off (if his fingers don't beat them to it), but that's a small price to pay. At least out here, it's quiet. Calm.

Wails of far off sirens, growl of tyres on tarmac, voices and televisions muffled by thick, warm walls. Down the street, one of Mrs Figg's neighbours is whistling _Silent Night_. For such a smelly, overgrown, icy place, Harry finds the bushes to be really rather a nice change of pace.

*

It's been maybe an hour since he was dropped off, when Harry hears it.

The pattering of paws, the gurgling growl of someone trying to talk with their mouth full, and then—

And _then_ —

" _Noo, ssstupid! Hurtss! Cold, kill, ow! I bite!_ "

The voice is high and wispy, more a hiss of expelled air than anything else. Young Harry, with every hair standing on end and a funny gallop to his heart, peeks out of the bushes to find one of Mrs Figg's dreaded cats, Snowflake (a rotund, fluffy white thing with a rather squashed face and big, bulbous green eyes), hunched over on the edge of the road. He's got something long and squiggly in his mouth. A something that is most definitely _talking_.

Understandably upset at the thought of Snowflake eating something that has a human voice, Harry acts on instinct, lunging forwards and grabbing the fat beast by its scruff. This is only so effective, considering that Snowflake is a very big cat, and Harry is only a very small six-year-old, but it works to startle the beast out of its chewing.

Snowflake, with a furious yowl and a hiss, lunges back to scratch at Harry's arm, dropping the squirmy, squeaky creature.

" _Hurtsss_ ," it says as it falls to the frosty asphalt and wraps itself into a knot.

"Oomph," Harry says as he lands on his bottom, the huge furball of a cat ricocheting off down the street with its tail puffed out to the same size as its body.

With only a cursory feeling of panic that he might be seen, Harry scrabbles up onto his knees to dust off his sore palms, and looks properly at whatever it is that was talking.

It's a sort of dull orangey-red, with shiny scales and a noodle body about the same length as Harry when he stands on his tiptoes. It's curled up tight, and its chest is rising and falling at a very quick rate. (Or at least, Harry _guesses_ that's its chest. Kinda hard to tell, when it's all just one long line.)

A snake. A talking snake.

There's a nasty looking bite wound toward the end of its body, bleeding sluggishly. Snowflake really hurt it. Something in Harry's chest aches for the injured serpent.

" _Are you alright_?" he asks, pushing his glasses straight and blinking hard.

The creature responds to this silly question by pulling its head into a wobbly 'S' and looking Harry in the eyes. If a reptile could seem startled, then Harry thinks that would be the face this one would be making. " _No, sstupid. Cold. Hurtsss._ " It bunches up the injury and pushes it into the air. Says rather pointedly, " _Ow_."

"Oh." His hands flutter closer to it, but hesitate to touch. What if it bites him? Aren't snakes venomous? Despite his worries, Harry crawls a little closer. "Um, _please can I help you?_ "

" _How? Not sssnake._ " The sad little creature flicks its tongue at him in a movement so fast, he barely sees it.

Raising his numb fingers to his coat zipper, Harry tugs it open, to about halfway down his chest. " _So long as you swear won't bite me, it's warmer in here? I could share my jacket, if you, y'know, wanted?_ "

The tongue flicking draws out, until its giving one long waggle. Is it sticking its tongue out at him?

" _I promise I won't, um, hurt you. And I won't let that cat at you again, neither._ "

The sound of a radio being switched on in the house behind him makes Harry flinch. Tinny voices and static. His shoulders hunch. If Mrs Figg looks out the upstairs window right now, she'll see him with the snake. If Mrs Figg sees him with the snake, she might tell Aunt Petunia. If she tells Aunt Petunia…

Somehow, he manages to stay still, even as his heart races.

The snake, after a moment that seems to stretch on around the little boy like an eternity, makes an unnerving, flailing movement towards him so fast that were he not already on his bum, it would very likely have him falling over backwards in shock. Deep, dark red blood flicks across the frosty tarmac from its tail, and it makes a funny wheezy sound like Dudley does when he's done too much Harry Hunting and needs to sit down for a breather.

But the snake doesn't stop – just keeps on flailing, gripping onto Harry's knobbly knees with a strength that makes the goosebumps on his arms and legs itch. It flicks its tongue erratically and then proceeds to stuff its little head inside his coat.

Harry continues to hold very, very still. Even when its wriggling nudges him first in the ribs, and then up beneath his arms.

Aside from sort of scary, ticklish and surprisingly strong, the first thing that Harry really notices is just how bitterly _cold_ the skinny creature is. It's a little like that time last summer, when Dudley yanked Harry's collar open and poured his icy Cola down his front – only less sticky, and way colder.

(If there wasn't a chance that he might catch hypothermia before, then there certainly is now.)

From somewhere in the vicinity of his armpit, that sibilant voice expels a whistling sigh. " _Warm_ ," it says. " _Ssstupid, warm._ "

Harry thinks he ought to be offended, being called 'stupid' by a sentient shoelace, but he's so tangled up in shock and amazement, that he isn't at all. His stomach feels fluttery, and his hands hover for just a moment over his midsection, where his scaled companion is giving him an awkward, unintentional hug. It's the first hug Harry can ever remember receiving. He wants... he wants to return it, but flounders, worried that he might accidentally press on the snakes injury.

Instead he scrambles up onto his feet and, half tripping over the loose end of his jeans, stumbles his way back towards the bushes.

Inside his jacket, hidden from the world at large, the half-frozen snake tightens its coils around its human-shaped heater, apparently content to fall silent.

*

**25** **th** **July 1998**

It's going to be a bad day.

He's only been awake for twenty minutes, but the tell-tale tightness in Harry's chest is enough warning. There are maggots burrowing through his muscles, there is frozen sweat gathering in his pores. Each breath he takes is laboured, exiting his lungs in a cold rush that leaves a cloud of mist in its wake, despite the summer heat.

The sun pours through the parting in the curtains in a column of light, and through smudged glasses, he watches motes of dust swirl about in a lazy waltz. He stretches into the worn springs of his mattress, muscles drawn tight after another long night of tossing and turning, the restlessness from his everyday life that seeps into his nightmares.

When he dreams, it's usually of pale skin and eyes as red as blood – of a creature with spider-like hands and cold, slick tongue that runs down the length of his scar and presses hard into his throat, right above his pulse point. Years of painful writhing and waking in cold sweats forced him to adapt, forced him not to react to the horrors his mind made up to punish him.

Those dreams aren't real, are clearly just figments of a fucked up head, and so are easier to ignore upon waking. The thing inside of him slumbers on.

That's not the case, whenever he dreams of— of back then. Of what started it all.

(And he knows by now, that he only dreams of the past when things in his life are about to go colossally tits up.)

Harry shuts his eyes against the thoughts, focusing instead on the real world.

It's so hot, so stuffy, that the heat is a physical weight, pressing into his chilled skin like an iron brand. His chest rises and falls under the pressure, sucking in thick, muggy air and exhaling icy condensation for a long while as his core temperature struggles to return to something more human.

He's pretty sure that he's got knots the size of golf balls in his shoulders, but doesn't dare raise a hand to prod at them in case the bunched muscles twitch or convulse.

(Larvae. Worms. Fingers, eating him from the inside out.)

Behind him, the blanket is bunched up against the wall, crumpled and dirty. Shoved aside at some point during the night.

Clammy skin; laboured breathing; stinging eyes. Doing his best to ignore the thing writhing inside his chest cavity, he spends precious minutes coming to terms with the fact that this is not a typical Sunday morning.

( _It_ is watching.)

With fuzzy teeth and a mouth tasting particularly sour, Harry eventually finds it in himself to stand. The communal toilets down the hall are out of order again, but his apartment comes with a sink. Besides, as he's not sure how much he trusts his wobbly legs, the less distance that he has to cover on them, the better.

 _Desperate times call for measures_ , he thinks, grateful beyond words that he hadn't thought to pull on boxers before going to sleep, and also that he hadn't left any dishes lying around in the basin, unwashed. (Not like he even _owns_ dishes, since he lives on meal deals, pot noodles and cheap, greasy takeout.)

By the time he's finished with a shaky morning routine of brushing his teeth and pissing into the sink, the dull throb in his temples has sharpened itself into a knifepoint stab, centred as per usual in his forehead. Despite _It_ having woken at some point in the night thanks to his dreams, the nausea isn't so bad this morning that he can't manage to wolf down what's left over of his Friday night pizza, but it's enough to keep him from wanting to stay in the warm, stale-aired room for any longer than absolutely necessary.

After dressing in a crumpled t-shirt (with a faded, peeling _Pink Floyd_ logo on the front) and a pair of jeans with holes large enough to expose his bony knees, Harry grabs his wallet and the red leather jacket he found in the Tube a few months back. He may have absolutely no idea who the previous owner was (and has very little interest in knowing, thanks to the rather unpleasant sweat stains on the inner lining), but it covers his arms and, with the collar turned up, obscures the lower half of his face. At this point, that's all he cares about. His trainers aren't much better than the rest of his ensemble, off-white with a sort of squeak following every step that hints at the imminent death of the heel. The laces are frayed, and the logo emblazoned on the side is an upside-down tick - a shitty _Nike_ knockoff he dug out of a bargain bin a year or so back, right when his last pair gave out.

He purposely doesn't look into the mirror on the back of the door as he works his way down the series of seven locks and deadbolts, feeling his nerves clamouring at each of the scraping _click_ s. The door opens out into a grungy grey hallway, and Harry edges out.

( _Nothing_ ever feels safe, after seeing what magic could do. Especially not on the bad days.)

The elevator is broken (as always) and the stairwell is tacky underfoot, the stench of piss radiating off of the exposed concrete thanks to the sun blaring through the wide, grimy windows. Harry keeps his mouth shut and breathes as little as physically possible, avoiding the handrails despite the black spots flickering across his vision. He ignores his body's protestations to the fast movements.

There's a lot of noise from various corridors on his descent from his top-floor flat - thumping bass; a muffled shouting match; the slam of a closing door - but Harry pushes down the urge to look back over his shoulders, balling his shaky hands into fists at his sides as he reaches the ground floor.

As always the brown-and-yellow 'lobby' of the complex is empty, and the door of the nearest apartment hangs off its hinges. Avoiding touching the cracked glass of the front door, he turns the latch and pushes against the metal frame until it creaks open, slipping out onto the street beyond.

He doesn't study the other down-and-outs lingering in a loud group around the entrance, ducking his head and focussing solely on the trailing laces on his trainers. The stink of weed and cigarette smoke does little for his throbbing head but he makes no comment and meets no eyes, like that might help him disappear.

It's been about two years since he was last stopped, but still he hides behind a grown-out fringe, tatty clothes and hunched-in shoulders. There's only so much time before it happens again. The clock has always been on a countdown – has never stopped ticking. He feels it, in his gut. His luck has run out.

( _It_ is awake...

And today's going to be a bad day.)

Harry manages to pass by China Palace, Tony's Plumbing and the stretch of five shuttered, blacked-out shop fronts before the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up, and the ice begins to force its way through his skin.

_Eyes, eyes on the back of his neck—_

An unnatural chill picks up around Harry, despite the heat of baking tarmac and exhaust fumes. His chest tightens, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, fist clenched to a white-knuckled grip. His clothes tug lightly in the breeze, the colour draining from his thin face.

He makes it maybe two streets before he catches on to a disruption in London's midday cacophony. It's a small sound, easily lost amidst engines and shouting and sirens. Easily missed.

Hard-heeled shoes clicking against the pavement, almost in time to Harry's feet.

Footsteps, closing in behind him.

Someone's following him. Of _course_ they are.

He picks up his pace, long strides that force the person hounding him into a slow jog in order to keep up. His legs protest, still feeling weak, but he pushes through. Just one straggler isn't a problem, even if it _does_ mean he'll have to move on from here and find a new home somewhere else.

It's as he's contemplating an escape route, that something catches in Harry's peripheral vision. He turns his head just so, as if glancing at a passing car.

Across the road, a man wearing a long flowing black coat keeps pace with him, making no effort to hide his pointed focus.

Harry steps around a beggar and a pair of fruit stands set up outside of a greengrocer, smelling strongly of overripe melon. A couple of Indian men are yelling at one another just inside the doorway, braced over delivery boxes. On the other side of the street, the man is forced to weave between a series of vendors and milling bodies just to keep up. Harry's lucky – these idiots have chosen a busy stretch of road on which to try intercepting him.

Two of them? He's faced worse odds and survived. At least he's got the advantage here, having spent enough time in this part of the city to know his way around. All it'll take is slipping out of their sight behind a crowd, or ducking into one of the many, twisting alleys in order to throw them off his scent. He knows this part of the city like the back of his hand. Shaking them shouldn't be an issue.

Harry begins to jog, turning all his attention ahead of him, to his escape route. His vision blurs around the edges.

Two is okay, he says to himself, breathing through his mounting stress. The street opens onto a busier crossroad barely fifty feet ahead, meaning he'll have a chance to outmanoeuvre them. He should still be able to—

His steps almost falter. His stomach lurches.

On the other side of the intersection, stood still and staring down the street at him is a man framed by long, white-blonde hair and the same black cloak as Harry's other pursuers.

(They're hunting me, he thinks. And then: shit. _Fuck_.)

Three. There's _three_ of them. And from the loud clacking of expensive heels, the one at his back is closing in fast.

His heart pounds so hard that the Monster that lives in the tight, stifling carapace of his chest stirs. Shifts until Its long, maggot-tipped fingers stop gnawing at Harry's bunched muscles and it can push _outwards_ instead. The Monster presses the maggots through the cracks in his ribs, eating their way towards the surface by slow increments, bloody mouths leaving behind them a trail of ice.

For a single breath, as his pace picks up and he rounds the corner of the crossroads onto the next street, his vision blurs, turning the white of the Monster as It struggles for control.

And then a fourth man steps out from a blocked-off doorway, hand raised like he'll reach to grab him.

 _Four_.

Ducking the outstretched hand and the sizzling burst of red light that follows, Harry picks up the pace, sucks a deep breath into his freezing lungs. Fights the instinctive urge to let up under the pressure of the Monsters clutching, writhing hands – to let his eyes roll back in their sockets and _give in_ —

But he's in trouble, so he shares his heart and brain with It long enough that the wind rips through him; whips down the length of the street in various directions and hurtles towards the four _magic users_.

_Hopes he tears through their limbs and leaves them breathless, broken, to bleed out and boil alive in the gutters—_

The pavement bursts apart beneath his feet, gaping crevasses that _rush at them_ —

The Monsters wide mouth clamps down around his heart, ragged, rotten teeth digging in as Its fingers break through his skin, blinding white, tearing him apart in a vengeful torrent of air.

**Consciousness flickers**.

Still, he holds onto himself.

Cars spin out of control, skidding across the road and colliding with screeching metal into shop fronts, into pedestrians, into one-another.

Ordinary people all around him throw themselves down to the ground, their clothing and hair thrashing. They scream and cower, despite the fact that they can't see It, eating him alive. No one can; no one but him.

**Flickers**.

From every angle, from all sides, he sees them. Through eyes that aren't his.

The strange men – the magic wielders hunting him – open their mouths, raise their arms. Shout threats that can't be heard over the din of the shrieking wind.

Light flashes from their hands, a rainbow of blurring colours, and the Monster lashes out again, tears the magic right from the air and sends it smashing back into them.

The man across the intersection crashes back into the building, followed by a groaning, caving lamppost, and large lumps of pavement.

Windows burst. Powerlines split. The body across the street goes flying into the path of an oncoming van.

**Flickers**.

Harry's so busy watching the havoc unfold, struggling to gain some kind of leverage on the Monster before It hurts too many more innocent bystanders, that at first, he misses it.

Another man, right in front of him, appearing with an earsplitting _crack_ , into the heart of the storm. A fifth. Huge, black cloak, hand aloft. Mouth gaping in a yellow-fanged grin.

Barely ten feet away.

The Monster sees him, though – sees him _and is ravenous_.

It hurtles towards the fifth, invisible to all but Harry, and tears through his coat, aiming right for his heart. Somehow the stranger dodges, even as he's grazed across the side of his face by the Monster's full force.

Somehow, still breathing. Still standing. Swaying.

Fifth's hand grips at the bloody, open furrows carved into his face and chest, even though he's making to step towards him and Harry— _nonono_ —

**Harry's heart is swallowed by the Monster**.

He knows the moment it happens, because the pressure of his feet on the pavement, the weight of his clothes, the smell of fumes and the blistering heat of the summer day, disappear.

With them gone, all that's left is the roaring of his fear, and a tornado of frigid air.

And with that, Harry Potter vanishes from London.

Behind him he leaves half a dozen badly injured Muggles, two unconscious wizards, and three more bleeding profusely. The street, only a few blocks away from where he'd spent the last few years living in relative peace, is ripped apart.


	2. everyone's a critic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so, so much for all of your feedback on the last chapter!! i was blown away by the response. :'))

He resurfaces from the Monsters hold like he's breaking through a cresting wave.

His back arches off of the ground, mouth falling wide open. Breath rushes into his lungs, too warm, thick with the stench of decomposing rubbish and brine. There is a heaviness to the air, something crushing that makes him ache in the wake of even that first breath. It's vaguely metallic in the back of his throat, like the static before a storm. Or, he thinks, a little like blood. The remnants of magic?

There is a blissful moment of numbness, where all he feels is the need to suck in lungfuls of air. He doesn't care that it stinks (quite frankly, he's so far gone that he doesn't even notice), he only cares that each inhale is too short, his chest is too tight, he needs _more_.

And then reality crashes back down over him with a suddenness that renders all his mad gasping moot. Agony seizes every muscle, every nerve - a sharp, lancing pain like the flesh on his bones is halfway to freezing - and the air is forced out of him. He rolls onto his side so that he can curl around himself. Harry clenches his toes in his trainers, clutches his hands to his chest. His skin stings, his fingers throb in time to his heartbeat.

After a while of choking on his own lungs, he's able to suck in small, wheezing breaths. His stomach still cramps around the motion, but it's tolerable.

When Harry blinks his eyes open, there is frost on his eyelashes, framing his vision in white. He's in an alleyway, judging by the wall two feet from his nose and the dark silhouette of a dumpster in his periphery - which would go a long way to explain the stink. It's still bright out, the sun glaring down into the narrow side street in a way that paints Harry's world into painful relief. There's an empty Apple Tango can glinting down by his feet, and a length of stained cardboard propped up against the wall.

Somewhere in the distance, there is the roar and crash of the ocean. The bizarreness of that thought doesn't occur to him. Harry's never been to the ocean, before. And the Monster's _never_ dragged him this far in one episode. Normally it's just a mile, maybe two. Shouldn't he be feeling a lot worse than this?

All he can do is lie, cheek pressed to the rough tarmac, and fight off the cramping of his muscles. The teen feels as if his entire body has brain freeze. He stays slumped on the floor, content to just thaw out.

Eyes slipping shut, he breathes through the urge to cough - his throat feels dry from the cold - and he focuses on the rays of the sun.

Time passes, though Harry can't say how much. He drifts in and out of awareness, stirring at the rustle of a plastic bag rolling past the mouth of the alley, or at voices coming from further down the main street. He's wrung out and lethargic, and the Monster has fallen blessedly quiet, sleeping off its exertion.

Harry knows from experience that the Monster is willing to remain quiet and unassuming when he's calm. It has no interest in the mundane, day-to-day happenings of Its host. It only really wakes up when he begins to feel tense or particularly stressed - or when Harry's in the presence of magic. In that sense, it's kind of useful. Like a sensor.

When he'd been a child, things had been harder. Harry's always had a temper, and he doesn't tend to think situations through before reacting - _especially_ not anything that can get him into trouble. Restraint's never come easily to him - it's something that he's had to spend years working on. Even _before_ the Monster, things tended to go wrong when he was upset. Odd things.

Humiliated by a haircut? He grew back his hair overnight. Upset by a particularly ugly jumper that his aunt was trying to force over his head? He'd shrink it. Cornered by Dudley's gang behind the Year One classrooms? He'd blink, and find himself suddenly atop the roof, scrabbling to hold onto the shingles. He'd never really noticed his inclination for magic until it had been too late.

And then _other_ events started making sense, too.

Like how little things seemed to break around the house when he was angry: Dudley's new NES console, that Harry wasn't allowed to play; the red trike Dudley got one Christmas and never used, left to rust in the shed; the latch on the cupboard, when Harry got sick of being locked in as punishment.

There were other events, too.

Once, back when Petunia had been teaching him how to prune the rose bushes, the entire front garden had somehow managed to die. The rose bushes, the perfect green square of grass, the begonias... all dead. Not a single healthy stem left standing. Petunia had been _livid_. Not at all fun. Of course, it hadn't exactly been a riot of laughs for Harry prior to the accident, mostly because Dudley had kept sneaking out and trying to steal the pruning shears. He'd waddled around by the front door, occasionally springing forward to try for a kick whenever Harry got too close, and had threatened loudly to snip off Harry's fingers or toes. Not a particularly nice thing to say, but then Dudley never _was_ a pleasant child. Besides, he rarely followed through with his nastier threats, mostly because he was very quickly distracted by other, more important things - like eating his body weight in bacon. If there was ever a doubt that they were cousins, all Harry had to do was compare Dudley's temper to his own - they were, despite their very different upbringings, both equally short-fused. Dudley's bullying must have hit close to a nerve because just a few days later, Harry was dragged out of his cupboard and scolded with much thin-lipped shouting. He'd poured weed killer all over the front lawn, according to his aunt. He hadn't, of course, and at the time he'd been very confused as to what Petunia was talking about.

Another time Vernon had been especially moody, in anticipation of some kind of important business meeting at work, and had taken to scolding Harry for every small thing that he did. He couldn't remember what the final straw was, but it was probably something about failed chores or a badly cooked breakfast. Maybe an insult about his parents. The details were fuzzy, especially after so many years of willfully repressing the memories, but... Vernon had said something particularly upsetting to an overtired Harry, and... well. Within a few hours, his face had been covered in giant, oozing yellow pustules.

Bad, but not the worst.

There had been one particularly horrid event with Petunia's favourite flowery vase that _really_ stood out, in hindsight. She'd been furious that he couldn't seem to polish it to her standards, (' _Fingerprints! Smudges! Look, right here! Do it again!_ ') and after an hour or so Harry, frustrated and upset, had stomped away. She'd chased after him, shrieking with anger, and there had been an awful noise from only about a foot behind her. The vase had tried to fling itself at her head and had shattered rather spectacularly against the livingroom wall. At the time his Aunt had been so loud in her scolding of him, that he hadn't really thought much of it - and neither, it seemed, had she. That had likely changed when she found it in pieces all over the carpet, but Harry wouldn't know - he'd long since made an escape out of the front door.

Now, whenever he thinks about it, he feels particularly ill. He could have- he could have _harmed_ her. His _magic_ had certainly wanted to. No matter how awful she was to him, he'd never gone out of his way to be a bad nephew. Not really. He certainly never wanted to hurt her.

Swallowing down his queasiness, Harry turns his thoughts away and gathers himself enough to sit up. His head swims as he straightens and he feels a little like old gum that's been scraped up off of the pavement, but he's not nearly as twitchy as he was before. 

The teenager shoves his glasses out of the way and scrubs at his itching eyes. His skin is still uncomfortably cold and his fringe is a little damp from the frost, but overall, he's not too bad. No longer are there maggots in his muscles, or chilblains biting at his hands. It's certainly not the worst he's been, after an episode. He knows from experience that the muscle cramps and the breathlessness will probably fade over the course of the next few days. The tiredness will take longer, no thanks to the fact that he gets hardly any sleep on a good night, and will have considerably less now he doesn't have an apartment to return to. That thought slowly sinks in.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, quietly but with feeling. He has no belongings. No change of clothes, no food, none of his paperwork. His heart skips a beat, and for a second he scrabbles with the pockets of his leather jacket, until-

Oh, thank God. His wallet, tucked safely where he left it. He sets his elbows on his raised knees and puts his head in his hands. Taking deep, slow breaths to keep himself grounded, he begins to plan his next steps. He'll have to scope out... wherever he is, figure out if there's a hostel nearby, maybe find a phone box and give one of his old workmates a call. Not Sam - he's been a right wanker since he got with Donna. John? No. Probably he's changed his phone number again. What about Manny? Sure, Harry never liked him, but the guy's into shady enough shit that he'd never asked questions about why Harry's suddenly skipped town. With a bit of weedling, Harry thinks he could get him to break into his apartment and send over some of his stuff. Would it be worth it? He knows Manny's a bit unreliable and is likely to knick anything he thinks might make him a couple of quid (the guy's a damned klepto), but he'd probably be willing if Harry offered him some money for it.

Then again, what if the magic users have staked out his apartment? Will they harm Manny if they catch him breaking inside? Harry's stomach turns, already knowing the answer: yes. Yes, they'll hurt him. Magic is toxic. He's _seen_ the sort of things the magic users do, and he knows that they won't hesitate to harm anyone they think can be used to get to him. If Manny _is_ caught, what would stop them from getting information from him about where Harry is now?

So then, what? He's got no way of getting his stuff back? Harry curses, digging his fingers into his hair. Talk about bad luck-

"Hey buddy, y'alright?"

Harry's head jerks up at the deep voice, and he squints down the length of the alley to the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing there. In either hand, he's carrying full bin bags. The teenager clambers up onto his feet with only a little bit of a wobble and uses the excuse of dusting off his knees to lean against the wall.

"Yeah, fine," he says, knowing his voice sounds hoarse. He hasn't said a word to anyone since his last shift at Burgerland three days ago, plus he's just spent the better part of the morning trapped in a freezing fucking vortex, so it's no wonder he's a little croaky. He clears his throat when it becomes clear that the man's gonna keep staring and extrapolates. "Crap morning."

"Bad trip, huh?" The guy finally shifts, walking slowly towards Harry as if approaching a feral dog. "That why you're lurking by my dumpster?"

Knowing he should probably be offended at the presumption he's a druggy - though what can he really say in his defense when he dresses like one? - he just snorts. "I don't do that kinda shit."

Harry backs up when the guy draws level with him, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets and fighting the urge to leg it. The man is _big_. Muscled like a boxer, with bulging biceps and a short-sleeved grey shirt that barely buttons over his pecks. Harry thinks the guy could snap him in half if he wanted to. He's older, probably in his late 40s, and he's got a neat trimmed beard and short, greying hair. His nose is crooked like he's been in one too many fights, and there are crows feet in the corners of his blue eyes.

He looks Harry over, plainly judging him, and then tosses the straining bin bags into the open-lidded dumpster as if they weight nothing. He brushes his hands off on the apron tied around his waist. "Yeah, well, you look like a bum," he says charitably.

Sad to say that's one of the kinder comments Harry's gotten in the last few years, but it's not unwarranted. He knows he's a mess. "So I've been told." He shrugs, runs a hand through his hair, and steps back toward the mouth of the alleyway. No point sticking around.

The man, though, pauses. His eyes are locked on Harry's forehead - right on his swollen, bloody scar. Harry's stomach jolts sickeningly, and he smooths his fringe back down with the flat of his palm. Too late.

"Whoa, you get in a fight?" Muscles asks, but Harry's already stumbling away.

"N-no, I, err," he says intelligently, and then gives up pretense when no good excuses come to mind. He spins on his heel and bolts toward the open street, thoughts flashing by at a mile a minute.

Behind him, the guy maybe shouts. Harry isn't sure. He just legs it out into the bright street and onto a redbrick path. The light is a spear jamming into both of his eyes, and he holds his arm up in front of his face to shield them. A look around shows an unassuming pedestrian street, lined with post-war building in varying shades of concrete and plain brick. The shopfronts are open in a way that makes Harry feel like he's stepped into a different world: all tall, wide glass panes with no hint of roller shutters. If this was London, they'd all be smashed in and robbed blind, within a week.

In the middle of the street, there's a cast-iron bench hemmed in by some pots of wilting pansies. Various board signs are dotted along the walkway, announcing pubs and hairdressers and - Harry squints - a pet shop. The whole road is at a slight slant. About two hundred yards to the right the buildings drop away to reveal a glimpse of a craggy blue ocean and a churning wall of clouds.

Too distracted to really appreciate the view, Harry glances over at the alley he just hastily vacated. Spotting that the man's followed after him, he lurches away down the hill.

The few shoppers out and about pause to stare as he hurtles past, gaining speed - an elderly lady with a poodle, a couple of young mums with their pushchairs, a man in his twenties flipping idly through a paperback - but he pays them no mind. All he can do is _get away, get away, get away_. His scar. That guy saw his scar. _Damn it_.

By the time he reaches the end of the street (which turns off into a Waitrose carpark on the left and a Lloyds Bank on the right), there's a stitch in his side and his head is one deafening bass throb. He's winded, which is embarrassing since the _only_ thing he's got going for him at this point is that he's good at running away from his problems. He takes a moment to heave down lungfuls salty sea air, bent double with his hands on his thighs.

While he's gasping like a landed fish, the sun ducks behind a cloud, casting long shadows over the path. A breeze, sharper here where it's more exposed, rifles through his hair. He flattens it with a couple of firm pats and stands back up, his eyes roving over the landscape.

To the right of the town, beyond the rooftops, Harry can see that the land rises up into mountains. Where the water's battered at the cliffs for centuries, there are jagged pockmarks carved into the rock. As the coastline sweeps around toward the town, the height slowly drops away into crumbling hills and sweeping bluffs, ending in pockets of pebbled beaches. Choppy waves crash into a larger stretch of land, directly below him. The path down to the shoreline bisects an overgrown, walled-off park full of hardy shrubs and wind-warped hawthorns. About half a mile to the left, where the incline continues to dip down toward sea-level and the town squats in a jumble of red and white stone, there is a long pier lined with stalls. A single trawler rides the waves, right against the horizon.

Overhead, a group of gulls ride a thermal, squawling as they're tugged inland.

Something feels off to Harry - something he can't quite put his finger on. Aren't picturesque seaside towns like this meant to be popular during the summer? Isn't this the tourist season? Where _is_ everyone?

Warily, the teenager decides to wander down to the beach. He should probably catch some fresh air, pretend like this isn't turning out to be one of the weirdest days in his life.

Harry sets off through the park, eyes skimming over clumps of brittle grass, jutting rocks, and the odd, waxy leaves of the smaller shrubs. There are a couple more cast-iron benches placed off on either side of the trail, and a few halfhearted attempts at flowerbeds. Really, it's less of a park and more of a badly neglected meadow. The grit on the path crunches beneath the soles of his trainers - he ignores the little stones that make their way through the holes in the heels.

Exiting through a creaking wooden gate at the bottom, Harry follows a series of stairs cut into the hillside and steps out onto the pebbles. They shift and click below his feet. The sound of the ocean in much louder this close up, and the waves look dark, almost black. They batter against the bank, leaving scudding white froth and tangles of seaweed behind them. Overhead, the clouds draw closer. There's definitely a storm rolling in.

Harry stays there on the edge of the water, picking through the stones at his feet and breathing in the thick smell of sea life. He feels, oddly, like he's seen this place before.

*

By the time the rain starts - large, hammering drops and the rumble of thunder - Harry's retreating back up the hill. He knows he can't put off facing reality forever, no matter how bloody rubbish things are looking for him. The town is small, but maybe there'll be a shelter he can stay in? If not, then surely a Travelodge - though he'd be unhappy about spending too much money on a pitstop. If he's gonna stay here, he wants to find somewhere a little more reliable.

Already unpleasantly damp, Harry first pops into Waitrose. Hunger has overridden his earlier queasiness, and his stomach is snarling as if to remind him that all he's eaten in the last 24 hours is a sloppy pepperoni pizza from Joe's Italian. He doesn't usually have much of an appetite, but often when the Monster's been active, he ends up feeling ravenous. Well, that or he's just violently sick for days afterward. Feeling like he could eat a horse is definitely the better of the two options.

Thanking his lucky stars that he's paranoid enough to keep all of his cash on him, Harry proceeds down to the sandwich isle and selects a hoisin duck wrap, a Snickers bar and some fizzy orange juice in a fancy bottle. ' _Made fresh, never from Concentrate. Four Seville oranges per bottle,_ ' it says on the front. After paying for his purchases at the only open checkout (a dumpy woman, with a nametag declaring her to be 'Linda', scowls at him), Harry ducks out from the fluorescent lighting to stand in the overhang by the trolleys. He eats his wrap (mediocre), sips at his drink, and feels a little betrayed. It's just Fanta, only about five times more bloody expensive.

With little else to do with himself, Harry braves the weather and spends the afternoon wandering through the upper part of town, pausing to study street signs ('Greater Milsom's Lane' and 'Filbury Close', to name a few) and peer in at shopfronts in the hopes of discovering a community billboard. All he manages to find is a corkboard in the window of an off-license just down from the street he'd arrived in. The only things pinned to it are adverts for furniture or beat-up old cars. He's about to give up when he spots a small, scruffy slip of paper in the upper right corner, with the words ' _ROOM 4 RENT_ ' written in block capitals, followed by a landline and a brief rundown of the requirements. There's nothing saying, ' _we don't want creepy, underfed hobos with no personality and a bunch of magically inclined stalkers,_ ' so he figures he'll take his chances. Why not, right?

Slipping inside, he buys a pack of spearmint gum from a shelf below the counter, and asks to borrow a pen. The cashier, a prettyish young woman with straight blonde hair and a nose piercing, hands him a biro with a look of narrow-eyed suspicion. Harry pauses at the newspaper stand, eyes roving over the headlines: ' _Family of 3 Found Dead in Dover_ '; ' _Hit and Runs on the Rise_ '; ' _Unexplained Lightshows Across North Wales_ '; ' _Somerset Strangler Strikes Again!_ ' There's been a huge surge in criminal activity over the last few years. An unprecedented amount of missing persons cases and murders. His eyes linger, unease knotting in his stomach, but... he brushes it off. What business is it of his if all this has anything to do with magic users? He tells himself to wind his neck in and move along.

After scrawling down the phone number of the advert and tucking it into his wallet, he returns the pen and leaves. Tries not to imagine a world where he's just a normal guy with normal clothes and the ability to say more than three words at a time without embarrassing himself. He would've asked the cashier out, or maybe just offered her a smile, and perhaps she would have even returned it.

He huffs a laugh at himself, though it's really more of a scoff. Harry doesn't care what the girl looks like or who she is. Not really. He's not interested in _her_ , he just craves the ability to talk, and touch, and _hold_. Companionship, _that's_ what he wants. He doesn't care who he gets it from. The teen wrinkles his nose. Ugh, how tragic is that?

Harry's so distracted by his self-disgust, that he doesn't even realise he's walked all the way back to the main street. His feet come to a squelching halt, and he tips his head back so that the rain patters over his face in a cold, cleansing wave. His clothes are plastered to him, the folds in his jeans rubbing against his skin, and his hair sticking to his head in wet hanks. Despite that though, the air is warm and heavy with humidity. Harry blinks up at the sky - now the colour of lead - through blurry glasses, and finds solace in the booms of thunder. Bright white lighting arcs inside the clouds like flashes of fireworks.

A door to his left jingles as it opens, and a woman carrying a huge bag of birdseed steps out. Harry pulls himself out of his daze, blinking the rain out of his eyes, and peers at the shop he's stopped in front of. ' _Marv's Exotics_ ', the red sign on the window proudly declares. The pet shop he'd noticed earlier. Below the sign, there's a series of photos. Geckos and beta fish, bearded dragons and tarantulas, chameleons and dart frogs and-

His stomach lurches. His breath comes shallow.

A picture of a normal phase corn snake, reds and browns and little hints of cream. Big orange eyes, a skinny neck.

( _'You're okay?' he whispered into the dark and the dust. He was curled on his cot under the stairs, with Hiss coiled up against his belly. 'Don't you need some dinner?'_

_'Ssstupid, is not want food,' the little snake had said, raising his head to flick his tongue against Harry's neck. The boy snorted and twitched away from the tickling sensation, rubbing his hand over his collarbone. 'Is just wanting Stupid's warm. Too cold. Stay still.'_

_Harry grinned until his face ached, reached out to curl small fingers over Hiss' cool scales, and buried his face in the pillow. His heart hurt. Was this what having a family felt like?_ )

Of their own accord, his legs carry him to the door. His hands shake as he pushes his way inside, the bell chiming overhead.

The interior of the shop is cramped but clean, and smells of wood chippings. There's an underlying animal musk, but it isn't unpleasant.

As soon as the door shuts with a _clunk_ behind him, the persistent drumming of the rain cuts out, replaced with an indistinguishable murmuring of voices. Harry peers around in the soft lighting. On either side of the room there are aisles of plastic plants, tank decorations, substrates, medications, cleaning supplies, and dry foods. In the centre is a small selection of empty vivariums, terrariums, and aquariums on display. Each has a neon discount sticker pasted on the front.

"Welcome," greets the store clerk without raising this head, greasy brown ponytail bobbing as he wipes down one of the lower shelves.

"Uh, hi," Harry replies, not sure what the hell he's doing here.

Towards the back of the room there's a counter, blocked in by a huge freezer and shelves upon shelves of writhing, softly humming insects. Harry's skin crawls at the sight and he almost leaves then and there, before he notices an alcove tucked away to the right, leading down into a room that's faintly glowing blue.

Despite himself, Harry walks along the edges of the room, giving the counter a wide berth, and steps down into the lower-leveled. He pauses to gape.

All around him, crystal clear and full of life, are walls of fish tanks. The air is warmer than the main shop floor, and the atmosphere somehow magical. Tiny fish of all shapes and sizes swim busily around their tanks, bumping into one another, bouncing off the glass, pecking at the gravel. Breathless with amazement, Harry walks from tank to tank. Tiny cherry coloured shrimp; flustered silver catfish; swarms of guppies and mollies; fat, round-faced plecos. In particular, the glinting shole of neon tetras hold Harry's interest. Such a tightly knit group, moving seamlessly together, flitting about with manic energy.

He's so distracted that for a moment, he doesn't notice the murmured voices, louder now than they had been before. Eventually, his brain reboots enough for him to turn toward the sound. He spots another small archway just beyond a huge tank of freaky, bubble-eyed goldfish, and stops to listen. His stomach sinks at the soft, high tones and the way they speak over one another, stumbling through the motions of conversation without actively engaging in it.

As if in a trance, Harry shuffles forward. His pulse thrums against his neck. Shivers spill over his spine. Somewhere in the seat of his stomach, the Monster shifts. Harry clamps down on his twisting fear, clenching his jaw and repeating, _it's okay, you're okay, it'll be fine_.

There's nothing for it, though. Not now he's heard them. They're like a siren song: irresistible; terrible. He pushes through the bead curtain, which tumbles and clinks around him as it settles, and he peers through the gloom.

Blue light is replaced with orange, and here the smell of animal musk is stronger. It's understandable, he supposes, given the fact that there are dozens of display vivs stacked around the room, creating tight corridors. Half the room is hidden in the maze of tanks. Somewhat hysterically, he wonders if this isn't a fire hazard.

The second he steps in front of the first row of tanks, the hum of voices ricochets up, into a riot of noise.

_"Sssnake man! Look, see!"_

_"_ _Let usss out.!_

 _"_ _Warm? I like warm? You are warm?_ _"_

 _"_ _Is here for usss, is here, yesss!_ _"_

 _"_ _You bring mice? We eats now, bring the mice._ _"_

 _"_ _We wantsss, we wantsss._ _"_

Harry sways under the onslaught. His head pounds, his ears ring. He reaches up to clutch at his burning scar.

Still his eyes are drawn to the glass fronts. Royal pythons, king snakes, milk snakes, corns, hognoses - all peering out of their hides, heads raised, tongues flicking. A green tree python up toward the ceiling weaves its lime coloured head back and forth. Beside it, a thick-bodied bullsnake butts its nose against the glass, tail rattling in frustration.

" _Mine, come here,"_ the bullsnake demands.

 _"Won't bite, won't hurt_ ," says the green tree python.

The rat snakes are a tumble of writhing bodies, fighting their neighbours to be the most lively.

A glossy black kingsnake bucks and flails, repeating loudly, " _Is pretty, look, is ssso pretty, sssee?_ "

The red, black, and white Sinaloan milksnake in the next tank along arcs up into the air and flops over backward.

Directly below it, a fat, squash-faced hognose puffs out its cheeks, bobbing about as if striking at invisible prey.

Their voices only get louder as he continues to ignore them. Harry thinks that his brain might implode.

" _You feedsss me, I yoursss._ "

" _My ssscales bright, yesss? You like, you do._ "

" _I let sssnake man touch._ "

It's too much.

" _Shut. UP._ " His words cut through the din like a knife through butter, and almost instantly, the noise drops away. Chest heaving, thoughts scattered, Harry has a moment of wild confusion over why the shop keeper hasn't come wandering along to check on the cause of the racket. Then he remembers that _he's_ the only unfortunate sod that can hear them, and he feels like an idiot.

In the aftermath of his command, the sound of bubbling water filters through from the next room, as well as a faint rustling. And then, almost too quiet to make out:

_"Rude, ssstupid human. Bossy, yesss. Thinks he is master. Ssstupid ugly."_

Harry, at his wits end after the trying day he's had, feels a sharp sting at the familiar insults. He jolts toward the grumbling, through the winding maze of cages, past terrariums of frogs and toads and lizards, to the very back of the room. There is a wall full of tiny plastic tubs, locked behind a glass cabinet door. Each of the tubs has a species name, a morph, and a date pasted to the front. Some come with symbols denoting gender.

" _Ugly human come looksee? Come to check? Ssstupid, I bite you, I will. Bossing me. Is not sssnake man; is rat man. Prey._ "

When Harry pinpoints the tub on the fourth shelf up, he squats down in front of it and peers at the label. It reads, ' _BCI, het sunglow, 14/04_ '. There's no gender on it, but Harry's pretty sure from the pitch of the hiss that it's a little girl. He doesn't know how he's so sure of it, but there you go. Just another part of the 'gift', he supposes. He also doesn't know what 'BCI' stands for, but it hardly matters. A snake is a snake, he tells himself. (Purposefully ignores the fact that he hadn't been able to look at any of the corn snakes. That's irrelevant.)

" _You're pretty rude, yourself,_ " he says by way of reply.

There's a lapse into quiet and a few confused noises from the other tubs, and then a little brownish head, shaped like an arrow, pokes up from behind the plastic. Catlike hazel eyes glare out at him. " _Ohh, reach in here, ugly. I bitesss your fingers if you try._ "

Despite the sharp pangs ofmemory, Harry can't help the low chuckle that worms its way out of his throat. " _I bet you would bite, too. You've got a real pottymouth on you, for a baby._ " Three months old and already as mean as the Dursleys. That's quite an achievement.

The snake tilts her head. Somehow, with her little cream chin peeking out and her neck bunched up behind her, she conveys a grating kind of condescension. _"I ssstrike fast and strangle you like rat."_

He scoffs. _"You're the size of a bloody pipe cleaner_ ," he says, which, okay, blatantly untrue. From what little he can see of her, she's bulky, with a neck already as thick as his pinky finger. Whatever species she is, he thinks she'll be huge when she's fully grown. Still, though. " _You couldn't wrap yourself around my hand, let alone my neck._ "

This is evidently the worst thing he could have possibly said. She arches back and gives a wordless hiss of rage, her sides working like bellows and her little mouth gaping to display a truly terrifying set of pink gums.

"Wow, you really pissed the boa off, huh?" Comes a deep, drawling voice behind him. It takes a moment for Harry to figure out that it isn't one of the snakes.

When he does, he shoots up to his feet so fast that the clerk, who'd been leaning over his shoulder, has to take a hasty step back in order to avoid being bowled over.

"Oh, err, s-sorry," Harry says, flailing. His hand springs up to flatten his fringe, which is already glued to his forehead from the rain. He realises that he's still soaked, and he's _cold_ despite the thrumming heat of all the close-packed vivariums. His red jacket is like a particularly wrinkly second skin. His eyes fall to his feet, just as a droplet from his hair drips down the length of his nose. He's stood, he notes with no small amount of embarrassment, in a puddle. "Ah, crap. Sorry," he says again, this time with an awkward flap of his hand at the ground.

"Mate, don't fret, you're good," the man says, scratching his greasy head. "Happens all the time." He smells faintly of weed, and even slouched, he's easily a head taller than Harry. After a pause in which Harry fidgets with the hem of his jacket and shuffles from foot to foot, the guy asks, "You looking to buy anything?"

"Er," says Harry.

The guy carries on as if he's holding a perfectly normal conversation. "Can't say I'd recommend a boa as your first reptile if you are. 'Specially not that one. She's been feisty since day one."

As if to emphasise the point, the baby boa pipes up in the background. " _Uglyrude, come back here! I snap, I bite! I show you ssstrangle!_ "

It's only because he's distracted by the sound that he says, "Ah, no, I... I used to have a corn. When I was a kid." He swallows down the ache of the memories - he's never said that out loud before. Not in over ten years. God. That dream last night's really messing with his head. "He was... mean, too." But gentle. Always gentle.

Scratching his head, the man says, "Yeah, corns are bigged up as these awesome beginners snakes, but in my experience, a lot of them are kind of arseholes. Too quick and nippy. Royals are much better."

Harry's throat aches. He hums in acknowledgment.

"But, hey, if you're really interested, I guess I could get that one out for you? Let you have a look."

It's enough to make Harry recoil.

"N-no, thanks," he says, and each word scrapes along his throat in protest. "I- I better go now. Gotta... Gotta get- uh."

With a wan smile at the man and final glance at the tub, he squeezes past and stumbles back the way he came.

As he goes, one by one, the snakes begin to speak again.

" _Isss hungry..._ "

" _Human cold, no fun._ "

" _Why sssnake men never take usss, hm?_ "

*

The rain's not nearly as pleasant, the second time around. With the sun blocked out by the buildings, a stifling chill has settled around him. The storm crashes and roars, following the peels of lightning so closely that Harry figures it must be almost directly overhead. He wonders if a bolt of lightning would do him the honour of striking him. Just, y'know, to put him out of his misery.

All around him, the street is deserted. The entire town is wrapped up in a grey gloom. Light from the shops pours out onto the bricks in puddles of warm, rippling gold.

Harry stands just outside of Marv's Exotics and tries to ignore the sadness that's welling up inside of him. Hiss is an old scar, normally buried deep enough for him to ignore, but whenever memories of him are grazed, he recalls with perfect clarity all the awful details. He'll remain an open would, Harry thinks, forever.

With nothing better to do than lounge in his self-pity, the teenager slumps down onto one of the benches. The metal slats are icy, even through his leather jacket and the denim of his jeans. He tilts his head up against the top of the backrest and lets his eyes slip shut. His temples throb around the tightness of his jaw, and he's tired. So tired...

Through the rain, there's the sound of footsteps. A soft, echoing _click_ that slices through the downpour and raises the hairs on the backs of Harry's arms. Almost as soon as he hears them, they stop. Harry lifts his head, peering through the thick sheet of rain for the source of the noise.

There's a tall, dark figure standing at the far end of the street, just in front of the park that Harry'd wandered through earlier. They're wearing... a suit, Harry thinks. Squints. Or maybe a black almanac. Harry's glasses are close to useless in the rain - he can't make out the person's face. It's overcast, and they're too far away. Still, there's something distinctly unsettling about the way that they stand there, rooted to the spot.

A shudder works its way through Harry. When he sucks in a breath, there's a familiar taste in the back of his throat, like hot copper. He swallows and it sticks. _Magic_ , his mind supplies, even as the weariness melts into the hollow pang of dread. Really? _Another_ one? Can't he catch a fucking break?

The shadowy figure takes another step towards him; Harry pushes himself up despite the complaints from his stiff legs. Magic swells, rising like vapour off of the stranger, almost a tangible thing. Oh, God. His chest is tight, his heart cacophonous against the inside of his skull, and he tries to stay calm, _has_ to stay calm. Braces against the ice he knows will freeze him from the inside out, but-

Silence. The Monster remains asleep.

Somehow, that's so much worse.

 _Click. Click. Click_. The stranger is approaching steadily. Sure, measured steps that eat away at the space between them.

Harry's eyes rove over the face, catching on the faint reflection of light in dark eyes.

His scar _throbs._

' _Hello, Harry,_ ' says a voice, bypassing his ears and curling through his head like smoke. ' _I've been waiting for you._ '

The stranger raises his hand, stretches out empty fingers, and the magic surges forward. Lightning-fast, it strikes.

He stumbles back a step, but it's too late.

Darkness swallows him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this chapter probably felt a little uneventful, but it's all important groundwork. i promise there'll be more fun in the next one!! <3


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